The obituary notice of Graham Wilfred BENDALL

Part 2 of 2, My Dad G W Bendall, Esq.
How he had an insatiable quest to collect as many seeds and cones as possible from every corner of the world he visited, whether in California, Canada, Michigan, Tasmania or Northumberland, and I’ll bet he managed to find a little treasure in China, India and Peru, too – and he would nurture and indulge them until they could survive on their own, free to flourish – “They have two chances,” he’d say.
And so it was, a Man raised a large brood, farmed land, nurtured animals and plants alike to make a better place and feed the world. And it was my Dad who one wet, dismal day in Dartmouth, watching beleaguered parents battle bedraggled children around the narrow streets, thought, “There must be a better way for families to enjoy their hard-earned holidays?”
And so, as the bottom fell out of Milk, Woodlands was born. Dad put his heart and soul into building a exciting place for families to enjoy the benefits of the countryside together. Millions of happy memories have been created, without having to traverse treacherous cliffs or walk beyond the horizon to find a great day out together. His legacy will last in the countless happy memories made through his endeavors and dreams.
That’s my Dad, Graham Wilfred Bendall, by Virginia Mary, first born… Rest in Peace

My Dad, Part 1 of 2
My earliest memories of Dad are lying in my crib on summer nights, listening to him work the garden beneath my window before locking up the chickens as night filled my room with heavy shadows and he finally put his spade away.
I remember him reading to us; Children of the New Forest, Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe perhaps that inspired my love of history and travel, always wanting to follow the road, up hill & dale, begging to see that castle or ancient monastery, and he seemed to love to oblige.
Dad would take us places most of my school mates had never heard of, The Quantocks, Blackdown Hills, Wales, Westward Ho! Woolacombe, Stonehenge – when you could touch the stones - and Charmouth.
Fossil-hunting below the cliffs beyond Beer, oh! how we scurried along those chalky trails, our short legs aching and our hands stiff from carrying our picnic in biscuit tins with bottles of Tizer weighing us down, pushing on far beyond the horizon! Then there was the time he took us, with Mother, heavily pregnant along the slippery cliff paths at Hartland, with the Atlantic buffeting the rocks below as my ears froze and I grew nervous for the little ones, worrying they might trip and dive into the waves below… But he chivvied us along and we all survived a little bolder and less fearful, more adventurous and inclined to push that little bit further.
I loved it when he told us about his ghostly encounters, about hunting for shrapnel in the fields and along the riverbanks of his childhood. I loved that he loved the birds, owls and swallows especially, and was sad to hear when they weren’t nesting in their habitual haunts. And of course, how he loved trees! Continued...